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#1 2016-08-19 13:47:21

pr_squared
Member
Registered: 2015-07-26
Posts: 6

After the Olympics

After the Olympics
Sarah Ponsonby looked up from the ornate orthography of her all-in-French menu and scanned Frère Jacques’ crowded dining room, noisy with ebullient customers. The Olympics had always been quite a party for athletes and fans alike and though much had changed, some things never change. “That’s her,” she said to Roberta Jenkins, her dining companion. “That’s Zoë Chapman under those shades, I’m sure! Excuse me,” she sighed, shaking her head in regret. A woman reporter’s work was never done. Zoë Chapman had won the gold for the USA today and this was a chance for a story that couldn’t be missed.
Roberta, her dinner companion, hadn’t heard a word that Sarah said for all the noise. Confused, she watched Sarah stand up and depart before she could utter a sound. Her face reflected her confusion as she lifted her fork and picked at her appetizer, hesitant to destroy the visual perfection of the presentation.

Zoë, in dark glasses, dined with two other women and one gigantic man. One woman, as petite as Zoë, looked several years older. Perhaps, she had once been a jockey too. A jockey together with her saddle and gear could weigh no more than 50 kilos. A “smallish” mount weighed at least 100 kilos. A second woman of ordinary size but immaculately groomed and expensively attired, looked a few years older still and seemed to carry some authority.

The man utterly dwarfed his female companions. He was one of very few men in the dining room. He wore a brightly colored blue wristband to show that a bond had been purchased, assuring his good behavior. Male size, strength, and alacrity for violence made many women uncomfortable and male access was denied many venues.

He was certainly larger than any two of the women together but something about his demeanor made him seem smaller than either. His shirt and pants were clean enough but his casual look contrasted with the elaborate couture of the other diners.
“Hey,” Sarah said, professionally beaming her warmest smile. “Aren’t you Zoë Chapman?” The choice of the vegetarian plate confirmed her guess.

Reluctantly, Zoë raised her shades and looked up. “Yep. I’m busted, I guess!”
“Congratulations on your win! That was one thrilling race.” It had been a proud moment for all Americans when Zoë stood on the award platform to accept the gold medal with her magnificent mount kneeling beside her.

“Thanks.” Humility aside, her eyes shone with pride and happiness. She had worked hard and sacrificed much for this day. “My Honey Bunny came through for us.” Honey Bunny was her pet name for her mount, Michael Griffith.

Now or never, Sarah thought. “I’m Sarah Ponsonby with WSPN and I was
wondering if I might ask you a few questions?”

Zoë sighed with a certain resignation but after all, one didn’t win Olympic gold
every day. Notoriety was fame’s inseparable twin. “Pull up a chair and sit down,” she
offered graciously.

Sarah accepted the offer eagerly. She pulled up a chair and squeezed in next to
Zoë. “Thank you. You’ve had a busy day, I know.” She searched the faces of Zoë’s
companions. “You’re Emily Norton, she concluded, offering her hand to the other
smaller woman. Emily had ridden the American entry in the Olympics eight year before
and won a bronze metal. She had been the first American to ever win a medal in this
relatively new event. And the sport had changed much over years
Emily nodded and took her hand.

“And you must be the famous trainer, Catherine Langston.” Sarah was in the zone
and she knew it.

“Famous?” she smiled, at once pleased and chagrinned by her real pleasure in
simple flattery. Catherine truly valued her privacy but she was quietly delighted to be
recognized. This reporter must be at least somewhat knowledgeable about her work, she
concluded with grudging respect.

Sarah looked at the large man who sat quietly and said nothing. A thick strong
neck protruded from his open collar. The scant remnants of much-enjoyed vegetarian
plate lay on the table between his large hands. Sarah was simply stumped.
Emily came to the rescue. “Sarah, meet my Timothy.”

Sarah shook her head in chagrin. Timothy had been Emily’s mount at the
Olympics eight years earlier. The team at the Buenos Aires games four years ago had
come up empty. “I remember now. Timmy was your mount! I’ve got a picture of you
two in my office. I just didn’t recognize him under all those clothes.” Sarah blushed
despite herself. For the past 20 years, males had run naked except for their harnesses in
the Olympic Pony competition; Jockeys wore colorful silks displaying national colors. So
much had changed.

Timothy blushed in response to Sarah’s obvious embarrassment.

“Timmy’s still my mount and now he’s my husband too. He’s still a pretty fair
ride.” Emily rolled her eyes and placed her smaller hand over her man’s. Everyone
laughed except for Timmy, who seemed a bit confused but he took comfort from Emily’s
gentle touch. He was a powerfully built creature but verbal repartee wasn’t his strength.

Pleasantries concluded, Sarah returned to the task at hand. “Zoë, that was quite
some race! That French girl, Gabrielle Daudier, really gave you a run for the gold.”
“She ran a smart race – she stayed on my shoulder for the first two laps, then
surged strongly into the lead. Her mount was outstanding! I thought she would make
her move a bit later but she moved earlier and took me totally by surprise. Her mount
gave her everything she asked of him. He has a great heart,” she concluded with honest
admiration.

Among the various aspect of sport, Sarah loved the camaraderie among
competitors. A passionate desire to win didn’t tarnish the true respect among
accomplished sportswomen, who knew their sport and honored others’ skill and
dedication. “Then you went to your crop!”

“Yes,” said Zoë reminiscing. “I went to my crop and my Honey Bunny answered
me. He gave me everything I asked.” She allowed herself a small smile of self-satisfaction.
A jockey did much more than sit in her saddle and torment her mount with her
spurs and riding crop. A jockey must know her mount’s limits. She must earn his trust
so that he gives her everything she asks, holding back nothing.

Zoë had literally flayed her mount. One might have thought that she hated him
but their relationship was much more complex. Sweat and blood flew from his massive
body in seemingly equal quantities. Still, he found some reservoir of strength and will
and charged back into the lead. He was pulling away when the tape broke against his
heaving brawny chest.

“Where’s your Honey Bunny tonight?” Sarah asked. “He should be celebrating
too!”

“The poor creature’s exhausted,” Catherine Langston, Honey Bunny’s trainer,
volunteered. “Too much excitement for one day. Much too much. I thought Michael
needed the time to recuperate. We’re flying him home tomorrow. Ms. Ponsonby, you
should see the new boys I have in training! Rothesay Stables is certain to be in
contention at the next games. You can quote me!”

Much as the word had changed, sport had changed too. Timothy had been an
amateur. Michael Griffith, Zoë’s Honey Bunny, was under an extended contract in
exchange for his intensive training. Ms. Langston represented the stable that owned his
contract.

Michael Griffith, aka Honey Bunny, stretched out naked and prone on the
oversized examining table and closed his eyes. McKenzie O’Connor, his groom, applied
the salve to the last of the lacerations on his buttocks and the back of his thighs. She
straddled his hips and kneaded the large muscles of his back and flanks. He sighed with
pleasure.

McKenzie had long hoped to be a jockey.. She put in her hours at the stable and
fought to keep her weight down but she was simply too large. Ideally, a jockey has to
weigh less than 50 kg. Well, a groom and perhaps a trainer was the next best thing.
She hopped off the table onto the floor. “Flip over now - Honey Bunny.” Even
she had begun to call him by his pet name. “You ran some race today and you have
every right to be tired and sore.” Given their disparity in size and strength, she had little
prospect of forcing him to do much of anything. Somehow or other though, she seemed
always to get her way with him. Her power puzzled her but she enjoyed her curious
authority. Flip over now,” she appealed and slapped his brawny buttock playfully.

Michael lay supine. Some female or other, it seemed, was always telling him
what to do. He thought back to the lawyer who had helped his mother with his contract
and his deferment. His mother signed and the lawyer had told him exactly where to put
his signature with the tiny pen buried in his large hand. He had put up with all those
annoying grooms and exercise girls. McKenzie was one of his favorites. Ms. Langston
had been a merciless taskmistress but his arduous training had led to his victory. He
owed so much to her and to Zoë.

McKenzie saw where Zoë’s spurs had broken the skin. She probed a wound
gently and Michael winced at her touch. “You’ll need some time to heal before we let
Zoë get at you with her spurs again.” Each wound was washed with soap and rinsed with
peroxide. Then McKenzie dressed each with neomycin ointment.
She inspected his mouth for lacerations from his bit. “That’ll keep you for now,”
McKenzie said when she had finished.

So much had changed after the last male representative had termed out from the Pony Racing
Governing Board. Governors were elected and though the male Ponies were
irreplaceable, the sport had many more female trainers, exercise girls, jockeys, and fans.
The rules changed as the Board sought purity. Mounts ran naked, except for their tackle.
A bit and bridle increased the jockey’s control over her mount. Spurs were a relatively
recent addition and times had definitely improved.

Training had become more extensive and professional. Preparing a mount for the
Olympics became more and more expensive. Aspiring Ponies placed themselves under
contract and were displayed, bought, and sold like other professional athletes or
livestock. Those holding their contracts were termed, “owners.” Amateurs, like Emily
and her Timothy were very few.

“Can I get out of here tonight?” Michael asked tentatively. He ached all over but
now that his race was run, he was eager to share in the Olympic festivities – a once in a
lifetime opportunity.

“Well,” McKenzie began, uncertain how her charge would accept the news. “Ms.
Langston wants you to rest tonight. You and I are flying back home in the morning.”
Michael weighed 117 kilograms without a decagram of fat. His size would earn him a
business class ticket – and she had one too to keep an eye on him. McKenzie was sad to
leave too.

“Do I have to wear those damned restraints?”

McKenzie nodded her head. “You know the rules.” Male size and strength,
combined with the natural male alacrity for violence, made males a constant potential
danger in the confined space of an airplane cabin.

“Is Zoë going home with us?”

“I don’t think so,” McKenzie said carefully.

“I think she’ll stop by and say good bye!” Michael said suddenly more brightly.

“I’m certain she will,” answered McKenzie, hoping that Michael didn’t hear the
note of uncertainty in her voice.

Michael lay totally relaxed. He was simply too tired to worry about the future.
His eyes were closed and his breathing deep and slow. He looked to be sleeping. His sex
lay flaccid between his brawny thighs.

McKenzie placed her hand upon his powerfully built thigh. The skin over his
heavy muscles was warm to the touch. His face showed only peaceful repose. She
detected no change in his breathing. She stroked his thigh, firmly kneading the heavy
muscle. His scratchy, coarse hairs ticked her palm. Suddenly, she saw his sex stir. His
face and breathing showed no reaction but his cock thickened and straightened. Like a
cobra from a snake charmer’s basket, it rose silently from his groin. Once upon a time, a
man might intimidate a score of healthy adult women simply by threatening to expose his
male paraphernalia. That time was safely in the past.

McKenzie groaned aloud at her unwanted accomplishment. Well, he deserved
something special tonight, she thought as she worked him methodically to a messy orgasm. She
remembered that Catherine had instructed her to be certain to secure him before leaving
him in his room and getting her dinner. Everyone else got to stay for the Olympics but
she and Honey Bunny would return to the USA first thing in the morning. It just didn’t
seem fair.

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